


Doting

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Top Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:22:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21585268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Inspired by the lovely PanyLuna'sgorgeous artwork.Crowley finds a slightly sad angel. Crowley makes sure said angel is no longer sad.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 425





	Doting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PanyLuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanyLuna/gifts).
  * Inspired by [I Made A Map Of Your Stars](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20813735) by [PanyLuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PanyLuna/pseuds/PanyLuna). 



It’s been a not-so-good day. They happen. Orders go missing. People say things they didn’t realise could hurt. Pastries are a little too soggy…

Either one thing casts the rest in a bad light, or the cumulative effect of many tiny ripples mounts up into a wave. Crowley explained it to him, once. The water-torture trickle of minor inconveniences, of things that made you unhappy, and then guilty about how deeply they hurt. 

Silly.

He knows, though, that there’s no demonic influence behind his current lethargy, because the minute the front door jangles open to reveal the only demon who ever comes close, Crowley is all eyebrows and concern that he’s trying to paint as less than it truly is.

Plus. Crowley never truly went out of his way to hamper him, even before. He might have played the odd little jape or prank, but he’d been just as content to keep things miraculous enough to be even as he was to wage small grievances. 

“Angel…”

“Hello, my dear.”

His demon gestures, flicking the sign to ‘Closed’ without asking. An imposition, but… welcomed. Aziraphale isn’t sure he has the fortitude to deal with anyone else right now.

“You. Me. Wine. Now.”

The words from his lips sound like an order, but the tilt to his head and glint of eyes over glasses show it’s a question, just a forceful one. 

“How could I say no?”

***

Wine. Good wine. It makes his mouth do the thing inside, the one he knows there’s a word for, but which he’s pleasantly just too far away from to remember. Wine.

He licks his lips, tasting the last swig, even though there’s more in the glass, and a splash (if lucky) in the bottle. But he doesn’t want to drink it, because Crowley is now expounding upon his latest Great Scheme. It involves wires and waves of some form, and it sounds devilishly (hah) clever, but really it’s the enthusiasm and wit he’s drawn by.

Crowley. Wiley one, most assuredly. He could find a loophole in a perfectly one-dimensional universe, if you gave him time. Aziraphale knows he’s the reason behind multiple footnotes and expanded definitions, after he picked apart yet another ambiguity, and it’s another thing to love about him.

His demon isn’t telling him about this Great Scheme to brag, though, because his voice has that something-else in it. Like the wine. Making. Scrunchy things inside. His eyes glint back to check, his story never going too far.

It’s a show. A display. A distraction. He knows Aziraphale loves to bask in his radiated insanity, sometimes. Be swept away by ideas and questions he’d never dream of alone. 

It’s for him. 

It’s all for him.

***

The splash is gone, and so are several other slogs, and Aziraphale knows he’s pink-cheeked and wiggling. He knows he’s utterly obvious and he doesn’t care one bit. 

He should be. He should be able to show he’s happy. Should be able to rest his hand on his demon’s knee, and look longingly up at him. Oh, he wishes he had the words. Had enough control over his wine-stained tongue to tell him how - how he makes everything _better_. How a billion inconveniences fade to nothing in the face of one (1) singular demon of red-headed persuasion. 

Yes, it’s gone. He has a warm knee under his palm, and there’s an arm slung around his shoulder, and he moves to nestle under it like he’s hiding below a wing. Crowley is all bones and angles, but Aziraphale is cuddly enough for both of them, and he pushes his head below the demon’s chin. 

“I do love you, you know,” he whispers, as if it’s a secret, as if the whole of Heaven and Hell and most of Tadfield and Soho and nearly everyone they’ve ever met for more than five minutes hasn’t known, all along, too.

“You do?”

“I _dooo_ ,” he purrs, and then jumps on a hiccup, and then beams beatifically up at his beloved. “You spoil me, so.”

“Is that a complaint? Am I tarnishing your halo?”

Noses come close. Fingers teasing at his collar. Warm, vine-rich breath on his face.

“Can’t be tarnished. Not from love.”

“I’d argue, but you’re the expert.”

“Kiss me,” Aziraphale says, feeling joyful, feeling gentle, and feeling safe.

“You’re terrible,” Crowley scolds, as he hooks a finger under his jaw, moving him into place. 

Slow, steady touches. A flicker of a tongue that can do more than it should be able to, and then there’s a grazing tooth and Aziraphale moans openly to invite him deeper in. 

It’s so good. So good. Not just the kissing, but the being able to ask. Being able to know he can be here, and no one will stop them. Being able to show in return what he’d felt all along. 

No angel should have to hide their love. None.

The kiss moves to his jaw, vaguely scratchy from nips that are lapped clean by his tongue, and Aziraphale turns side-on to help. His bowtie is unwrapped like the finest box of chocolates, crinkling into nothing until there’s kisses there, instead.

Crowley must be doing something rather untoward with time, or the number of limbs he has, because the angel is sure he shouldn’t be able to move like this. He pushes his grip into those bright swirls of hair, and throws his head back as he’s devoured from the throat down, lavished and lapped and licked and loved. The swipe of his tongue making everything go dizzy, and before he knows it, he’s turned and lying down on his back, on the couch with a demon crouched above him, ready to strike.

Even if he were a snake, right now, Aziraphale wouldn’t fear those fangs. He knows he’s loved. Knows he’s safe. Knows he’s treated and spoiled rotten by another creature who was made to love. It had been so long pent up, so long repressed, that it was bound to explode when it could. Bound to turn into wildfire-touches and midnight confessions and both of them trying to out-do the other in their displays of affection.

Today, Crowley gets to win. Aziraphale needs it, and he’s comfortable enough to let it happen. Which.

Once upon a time, he’d have exploded at the thought. At the mere concept of being truly able to indulge in feeling so good, without looking over his shoulder for the punchline. The person (or angel) ready to tell him that he _shouldn’t_. That it was selfish, or bad, or sinful, or wrong. 

But no. Crowley has never made him feel that way. Admittedly they’ve disagreed over what counts as good taste, or what is enjoyable, but the very concept of wanting to be happy?

It’s something they’ve always, privately, agreed upon.

And it’s why he lets those talented hands prise back layer after layer. Lets him push down coat and waistcoat and shirt. Lets him kiss over fuzzy belly and grin up at him. 

“Here?”

“Bed, please,” he murmurs, and things sort of tighten in his chest. It shouldn’t still be so thrilling, but it is. To be so desired, and so beloved. To be so wanted.

“Course, angel. Of course.”

***

They cheat their way upstairs, but Crowley resumes the long-way-round with stripping him, and Aziraphale steals sweeps of his own hands, or whispered kisses as they tumble further out of their day and into their place that’s just for them. 

His legs wrap around Crowley’s hips, as they settle on top of the bed. He wants to feel… feel the way he feels when his lover uses him, when he’s made to simply take every rut and push. Other things feel good, too, but right now he wants… he wants to feel special, and protected, and cherished, and - alright - well and truly fucked. 

Crowley does do it so very well, after all. He’s such a voracious lover, so much so that Aziraphale himself worries that one day he won’t keep up. They can’t retain this level of fervour forever, surely? No?

He looks up with a question in his eyes, checking… but of course, all he sees is that endless, tireless affection. The look he’d caught behind glasses. Reflected around edges. Angled when he thought Aziraphale hadn’t seen.

It. It almost hurts. It’s almost blasphemy, to feel so utterly wanted. To be someone’s real goal. To mean everything. It’s frightening, in all the best ways.

“How do you want this?” Crowley asks.

“I want to be yours,” he answers, and lifts his hands into the pillows in open surrender and request combined.

“You’re mine for as long as you’ll let me have you.”

“Well, then, I should hope you do like eternity, after all.”

***

The fingers and tongue he uses aren’t actually necessary, but they are most assuredly enjoyable. Incredibly enjoyable. They drag over nerve endings, and send washes of warm pleasure up his spine and down into his thighs. 

Aziraphale is caught between wanting to buck and writhe, and needing to weather out the storm of sensation. He draws his heels to his ass, tilts his hips, and begs for more with only the gesture. It helps the fingers slide that much deeper inside, and he gasps at the sensation, needing… needing so much more.

“Angel…”

“Love… please?”

He sounds so broken, and the poor thing is as hard as he is. This is torture, to hold back. Torture. 

“ _Yessss_ ,” comes the hiss, as he’s pulled towards the end of the bed. 

His hands slide higher, and then his legs are man-handled by a very eager demon. Aziraphale bites his lip as one leg is lifted, pushed up and locked over a shoulder, making him ready to be taken.

It’s such a simple thing, but it’s not. It’s. It’s the trust, inherent in sharing such intimate parts. It’s the care to avoid cramps, the rushing towards mutual pleasure. It’s the grins at the noises, and the occasional mishap. 

And it’s the eyes that pin him to the bed, like a butterfly on display. Like the gaze is Cupid’s own bow, and he’s speared right - OH - open! Open, when the first thrust of his demon breaches him, and makes his ass clench and his thighs wobble. 

Oh. Oh, oh, oh. No matter how many times, it’s still as gloriously wonderfully absolutely perfectly lovely as the first. And even better is the misty look in his lover’s eyes, that means - yes - yes it is. It is right. It is… mutual. Not just the pleasure, but all the bits between. 

Hands touch for balance, on his shoulder, on his other leg, getting them pretzeled into a perfect, bundled knot. Skin on skin, and he can feel the heartbeat under his calf, which makes him grin all the wider. 

“Love you, angel,” he brrs out.

That forelock tumbles down, the one that always does, and Aziraphale wonders if he should reach up to brush it back, or blow it, or… then there’s a rolling, rocking, and his cock grazes his demon’s belly and suddenly little bits of hair are less important.

“Love you, too, Crowley,” he rumbles back, and lets his eyes almost drift shut.

They don’t go fast. Crowley never does. He never did in the first place, if the angel is honest, but he’s glad he waited, all the same.


End file.
